Pasta- A Tragedy Already Made
By: Apple_Pie, GlueBottles4Ever, Fat Bunny, allasophy It was a cold sunny, dark bright, mysterious cheerful evening. There was a knock on the door. “That must be the pasta!” my mom said. She opened the door, paid and tipped the pasta man. “Are we getting rotini or tortellini?” I asked. “You know Sancho is allergic to tortellini.” Sancho was our pet cactus. He was very sensitive to certain foods. “Don’t worry, we are getting rotini today. So now get to work and clean the house! You will not get any food if the floor is not sparkling!” Mom replied. “I always get treated like a slave,” I muttered, as I crept to the kitchen table to eat a cupcake without my mom noticing. I finished the cupcake in two bites and cleaned the table and the floor. My mom nodded. I took my rotini and gulped it down. Sancho ate tiny bites as it sucked up to pasta. Most people would think of pasta as nothing, but for us it was special. My dad had been a pasta maker. He and his partner, Raindo, had been killed when the microwave melted and dripped into their lunch. The poison killed them in less than an hour. Pasta was our way of remembering him. As I ate my pasta, I savored the taste of the amazing taste. Then, I felt a tingling sensation, as my fingers started to shoot past everywhere, and my mom was screaming, “What is this?” My mom disappeared with a pop. The tingling sensation disappeared. Sancho jumped over, still in his pot. He didn’t move often, so when he did he either needed more cigarettes or it was an emergency. Sancho jumped over to the cigarette cabinet. I guessed it wasn’t an emergency. Something hard hit my face. I blinked and looked up. My mom looked down on me. “Falling asleep midclean is unacceptable!” she yelled. “I don’t care if you’re tired, you’ll only get pasta after you finish cleaning the house!” I said “Fine”, as I walked out of the house to finish working. By the time I finished, both Sancho and my mother had finished their share. I took the leftovers that my mom allowed me to take. I sat down and started eating quickly before my mom told me to do something else. My mother stares at me from her throne. It wasn’t really a throne, it was a rocking chair. We got it when my Uncle’s third cousin’s father-in-law died. It was a horrible death. Someone threw a xylophone mallet into his ear. He’d stumbled off a three inch cliff with a fire extinguisher at the bottom. He died almost instantly. I still cry about it sometimes. As I was silently crying, I thought about all of the people who died from the thee-inch cliff. Man, we were stupid. Sancho was placed next to my mom. There was a knock on the door. I got up even though I never finished my pasta. I put the pasta in the fridge and opened the door. A stranger walked in wearing sneakers. I was forbidden to look at my superiors in the eyes unless directed to. “I’m here delivering your cigarettes,” the guy reads in a gruff voice. I take them and place the pack in Sancho’s pot. Sancho smoked happily as he lit five cigarettes at once. My mother made a disgusted face as the smoke filled the room. I could feel my nose involuntarily wrinkling. My mom looked at me. “Clean up the mess afterwards. Stay here.” She walks out, as I start to inhale the smoke. It was always “Sanchita clean this up” “Sanchita fix that.” The only fun I had was when I was with my friends Ann and Leranda. Ann even had a crazy mom. At least someone understood what I was going through. After I finished cleaning up, I snuck out of the house to meet Ann in our secret hiding place. We met in a treehouse in the middle of the forest, as we talked about our terrible lives. Ann had brought her smoking cactus, Manto, who was smoking ten cigarettes at once. Soon smoke filled the air, and she threw her cactus out of the window so he would smoke outside. Sancho was Ann’s cactus before she got Manto. Sancho had a smoking habit from Ann’s mom’s sister’s niece. The tree nearby caught fire, from the lighter. We put it out and evacuated the place. We walked towards a weird looking cliff. The one my uncle died on. Suddenly Ann went on a psychotic rage and threw Manto down the cliff. She walks toward me. I place Sancho on the ground. She shoves a pointy rusted spatula (Where did she even get that?) between two of my ribs. It opened a hole in my lungs. ~ Ann rolled Sanchita’s dead body off the cliff. She thought about killing Sancho, and then decided against it. To escape conviction, she’d have to take her own life. Ann took out the vial of battery acid she always kept with her. Ann uncorked the vial and drank. The End {Do not try this at home. The suckish authors of this story do not bear any responsibility for your actions, nor are they financially responsible for any foolish transactions you made concerning this story. No financial compensation will be provided to anyone who wasted their life reading this or any idiot who actually learned a lesson from this pathetic waste of paper. Please note that Sancho the cactus is the best character ever.}Category:Stories